


Silent City

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Silent City [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Attempted Sexual Assault, Former Pornstar Dean, Frottage, Lovers to Friends, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 23:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11542485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Dean has worked as a dancer for years, more than he cares to count, and the clients are always the same: drunk, groping, and shameless in their fantasies. But after a confrontation on stage with a customer, Dean is forced to reevaluate his job and his life, and whether or not he can justify the means just to survive.Until by happenstance, a stranger in a dark alley decides to change his life forever.





	Silent City

They’re handsy tonight.

Not that they aren’t always—a few women have glanced off his jockstrap while shoving singles into his waistband, but never venturing further. They have boundaries. They respect the workers, because some of them have been there as well, scrounging for change by putting their bodies on display, just to pay rent for the month or to even afford dinner that night. He’s even attended a few weddings with regulars, and acted as a one-night boyfriend to parties he never had an interest in in the first place.

Never will Dean be able to say he hasn’t led an interesting life, albeit one he never intended to delve into in the first place. He happened into dancing by chance, after a half a year stint at a company he has no intention of looking back on. Here, men don’t hold him down, don’t whisper sweet nothings into his ear, all for the camera and an audience he never will meet.

It paid well, though—enough to pay off his car and the remaining debts he owed to the university system. That was all he needed it for, and never again does he plan to step through that doorway again. In his dreams, he doesn’t remember the scent of vanilla and mint and the smell of sex that never quite washed off the sheets. He doesn’t remember calloused hands on his hips. He doesn’t remember teeth and bruises, and incidents his superiors refused to look into. Those scars will never heal—and three years later, they still sting fresh with every look men toss him, hungry eyes and disapproving scowls, one blurred into the other.

The men here consider him less than human. That’s the only way Dean can figure to describe the none-too-gentle brushes of shoulders in the halls of Silent City and the sly remarks tossed over his shoulder when he works the booths. On the stage, though, dressed in next to nothing under misters and the neon glow, all sense of modesty is lost. Dean may be a slave to the rhythm, but they’re haunted by their desires. Forbidden touches in the night, lap dances Dean puts his heart in, all to go home to their wives, the bar a memory until their return.

At its very heart, dancing is a tasteless industry, down to the floor bosses and bartenders, and the patrons that won’t keep their hands off him, no matter how often they’re told not to touch.

Tonight, Dean moves to the beat of some song he can’t name, all bass and low notes and drawn out slides. Thursdays bring in less cash than other nights, but the crowds are always raunchier, a little more drunk, a little more thankless. It’s his last set before the ten o’clock hour rolls around; after that, Leigh takes his place. Leigh, with chiseled abs and too-tight muscles that look in no way healthy, but the crowd loves him. He puts Dean to shame every day, but for what Leigh lacks in personality, Dean makes up in charisma and a smile that never falters.

Even when someone grabs his ass. Four times a night at most, Dean lets it happen—after that, he signals to the floor manager and the person is supposedly asked to leave; what actually happens to them, Dean’s never bothered to ask. This man, though, is relentless. He’s part of a group of business associates, men in suits and ties, all chatting amongst each other in booths, not really paying attention but always watching from the corner of their eyes.

For the most part, Dean can ignore the cat calls and the pointed leers and wry suggestions that he should go home with them. This man is as seedy as they come, cigarette in his mouth beside the stage, sunglasses on in the dark, and hair unnaturally white, almost shining under the spotlights. “C’mon,” he drawls with a grin, reaching up again; Dean moves out of the way, one leg around the pole. “Be a nice boy and c’mere.”

And the worst part—Dean can’t physically say no. Declining customers is bad business, especially if they’re paying for private dances. But this man hasn’t paid, and most likely, Dean doubts he would even try. The most he can do is ignore him, or reiterate, “If you want something, ask Sheryl.” But he doesn’t. The man just leers and reaches, and brushes his hands along Dean’s calf in a way that makes his skin crawl.

No one notices, especially from his group. Tonight, a seven minute show feels like an eternity. Marginally, the music begins to wind down, but it’s not enough to quell the sudden urge to grab his tearaway pants and run backstage. “Just put up with it,” Donna told him when he first started, “No one’ll hurt you, and if they do, feel free to kick their ass.”

But he was wide-eyed and innocent then, when returning to his hometown meant a new life and a more accessible job market. But somehow, he always ends up back here, half-naked in front of dozens of strangers, all eyes looking on the boy with the tattoos on his shoulders and back, lips and nipples pierced and ears decorated with three studs on each side. Everything his parents never wanted for him, but every person’s late night fantasy come to life.

Some nights under the sheets in his run-down and possibly mold-infested apartment, he thinks about how he never wanted this life for himself, and he laughs until he cries, until the tears make him sick and all he wants to do is go through with it for once, to become the stain he sees in his dreams, existence forgotten on the sidewalk.

The man touches Dean’s ankle this time, fingers freezing from the tumbler he previously held, now in his other hand. “You’re too pretty to be here with all these folks,” he says, husky with alcohol. “Bet that mouth’s real good.”

“Back off,” Dean growls at a high point, just as the music hits its peak and the lights begin to pulse in quick bursts, keeping rhythm with the bass.

The crowd reaches a fever pitch. Sweat drips from Dean’s chin to his chest and down, to the tight black waistband of his jockstrap, and mid-high, the stranger reaches out and attempts to tug it all down, startling both the floor boss and several women on the other side of the stage. Jerking away only makes it worse, and the fabric rips in his grip, half the elastic crumpled in the man’s hand, and Dean has half the mind to kick the guy in the face if he weren’t trying to keep from exposing himself to strangers.

The lights go dark and the crowd boos the sudden absence of their entertainment, but mostly toward the man who ended it all; meanwhile, Dean rushes from the stage and through a back door, and heaves into a trashcan until the shivers settle and he can breathe again.

No one comes to his rescue, not for a long few minutes, arguably some of the worst of Dean’s life. He hides in the employee restroom until his mouth tastes more like toothpaste and less like bad coffee, and eventually returns to the lockers to find a pair of clothes that won’t rip, no matter the force. Jody comes in just as Dean is shrugging on his shirt, more wrathful than apologetic. “We should’ve kicked them out the minute they showed up,” she says and crosses the room, cupping his face in both hands. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Scared me shitless, but I’m fine,” Dean musters. He could brush her off, but any attempts in the past ended in prolonged hugs and assurances, neither of which Dean can stomach right now. Any sort of touch burns, unsettles him in a way he hasn’t felt since March. “Jody, I’m fine. I promise.”

“You know for a second I don’t believe that, right?” Of course she doesn’t. Jody is like a second mother to him, and has been even before he left for New York—of course she’d beat someone to death if they dared to touch him. As touching as that is, she really shouldn’t have to. “You want someone to walk you home? Just because we kicked him out doesn’t mean he still isn’t around.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Dean shrugs, slamming his locker door closed and slipping on his shoes. “Besides, I can kick his ass outside.”

“That’s the spirit,” she laughs, but her smile dies. “You make me worry too much, Dean.”

 _You shouldn’t have to_ , he thinks and hangs his head.

The night is sweltering beyond the back door, humidity thick enough to raise sweat beneath his shirt just from walking outside. For a while, Dean stands there in the back alley, eventually leaning against the wall and pulling a pack of Marlboros from his backpack, along with a lighter in desperate need of repair. Cigarettes don’t help—they never did and never do, but it gives him something to concentrate on that isn’t ripping his own skin off or finding the nearest high rise in the city. Lawrence is big, but not that big.

Heat lightning streaks across the sky from cloud to cloud, blazing trails through the abyss, just as soundless as the footsteps he knows are approaching. Though, quiet as they are, they still don't belong to who he suspects. His heart betrays him anyway and jumps, his fingers shaking around his cigarette, even after he opens his eyes. A man stands at the mouth of the alley, dressed in a long tan coat and black suit, tie rumpled. Wind muses his hair before he steps into the dark, and just before he disappears into the shadows, Dean swears he sees his eyes glow.

Faintly, Dean can hear the music kick on again from inside. A car passes on the two-lane, pedestrians head in and out of soon-to-close restaurants, and the stranger stands before him with gentle eyes and even softer hands. Dean doesn’t recognize him, immediately. But he was with the group, sitting at the back, deeply uncomfortable with the scene. At this point, Dean doesn’t blame him—if the money weren’t good, he wouldn’t be there either.

But the notion of it, that this man knew his attacker, gives him pause, at least until he speaks. “I want to make sure you were okay,” he says; smooth fingers trace the frail skin of Dean’s wrist, creeping to his hand until he nimbly steals Dean’s cigarette away, crushing it beneath his shoe.

“I’m fine,” Dean says, oddly winded. Still, the stranger doesn’t let him go, doesn’t do much other than take his hand in his own, bringing it to his lips to kiss along every finger, every knuckle, down to his palm. Dean can’t breathe, heart racing.

None of this makes sense. Five minutes before, and Dean was fleeing the scene of a crime, and now, some guy with sharp cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose and criminally soft lips was now sucking soft kisses to his hands, over his wrist. But it feels safe—he feels safe, so much so that Dean doesn’t mind when they kiss, Dean pushed against a grimy, weather-soaked wall with a hand under his shirt and another gripping his waist, pulling them flush.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks between breaths, clawing his fingers into the stranger’s coat, gasped when he kisses Dean’s neck.

“Castiel,” he rumbles, blending into the night. “I was watching you tonight.”

Dean swallows, resting his hand on Castiel’s nape. “Like what you saw?” he says through a whimper. Heat curls down to his toes, all from Castiel nipping at the skin beneath his ear, intent to leave a mark. “Please…”

“I’ve never seen someone move like you do,” Castiel goes on, apparently entranced with something on Dean’s neck. He lets up at some point, only to begin kissing along his jaw, gathering humidity on his tongue, and Dean swallows a moan. “You’re beautiful, and I couldn’t stand watching my client defile you.”

“Your client?” Dean wheezes, and Castiel nods. “No offense, dude, but you need better friends.”

Castiel huffs under his breath, just the slightest bit amused. “After this, I never intend to speak to him again.”

Dean smiles, just the faintest bit, only to have Castiel kiss it off him, both hands cradling Dean’s head, drawing him in. Willingly, Dean moves with him, bodies pressed flush in solitude, the city drowning out each moan, every soft pant between them. At some point, Castiel asks, “Do you live around here?” and before he can fully comprehend just what he’s doing, he’s dragging Castiel from the alley and around the corner.

Dean’s apartment is only five blocks down the street, a derelict-looking brick building that somehow passed certifications to provide public housing. In the light of the street lamps and passing cars, Castiel’s profile is beautiful, strangely charming. Another long few minutes of Dean’s life—ignoring the sudden heat in his veins, just to keep from kissing the life out of this beautiful man.

They barely make it through the door to Dean’s apartment before Castiel is on him again, slamming the door behind him and sliding his coat off his shoulders. Dean helps with the rest on their way to the bedroom, Dean haphazardly guiding Castiel out of the way of walls, several of which they run into anyway. Of those, Castiel hoists him up but his waist, and for long, slow seconds, they kiss until Dean is dizzy with flushed lips and an even redder chest.

Dean’s bed is nothing more than a mattress on the floor covered with blankets, but Castiel still throws him down anyway, crawling over Dean’s nude frame and kissing down and over every tattoo, every scar, the peaks of his nipples, the sweat that begins to bead along his collar. All Dean wants, in that moment, is Castiel and those lips, those hands that slide across his skin with intent, soothing away his worries, erasing memories with just a touch.

They don’t fuck so much as cling to each other, Dean too enrapt in kissing and nipping Castiel’s lips to care that Castiel is grinding their hips together, cocks sliding warm and hard between their stomachs. No finesse, nothing nonchalant about it; Dean digs his fingers into Castiel’s shoulders while Castiel thrusts, sloppily mouthing along Dean’s jaw and neck, both their cocks wrapped in one hand. Dean didn’t realize before, but everything about him is huge, from his hands to his body, putting Dean to shame with just his existence.

In his years in the industry, Dean has met larger men with even more brutal agendas—but Castiel touches him like a lover, whispers sweetly into his ear like this isn’t the first time they’ve met, like he’s known Dean all his life. He melts Dean, his bones liquefying in orgasm, his vision blackening at the edges, and somewhere in the throes, he feels Castiel come against him, warm in his own release, their sighs mingling once their hearts calm.

The bed is cold when Dean wakes the following morning, sheets flung in every direction, half off the bed and none near Dean. Castiel is gone—or, as gone as one can be, judging by the sounds in the kitchen. Either he’s being robbed or the poor guy is trying to feed himself with what little is there. Maybe some cereal boxes, maybe a loaf of bread; Dean hasn’t been home in a week to find out.

For once, Dean takes his time getting out of bed, foregoing everything but his boxer briefs and a robe, the softest one he could find in a thrift shop. As he thought, Castiel is standing by the island in only sweatpants—Dean’s, from the look of it, too tight on Castiel’s hips—stirring milk in an empty bowl while reading over something on his phone.

Dean can practically feel his smile when he walks in the room, afterwards snaking his arms around Castiel’s waist, just to feel how warm he is, that familiar skin that comforts him, soothes him to his soul. “Figured you would’ve left,” Dean says, hiding a yawn in Castiel’s shoulder. “Now you’re stealing my food.”

“I was waiting for you to wake up,” Castiel chuckles. He drops his spoon and turns in Dean’s arms, leaning against the island while they kiss, open-mouthed and everything Dean missed in those few hours. Castiel tastes like Cheerios and smells like lavender—he hates how much he loves it. “I have to work this morning, but I couldn’t go without telling you.”

 _Work_. The thought curdles Dean’s enthusiasm, his smile growing slack against Castiel’s throat. “You wouldn’t happen to be hiring, would you?”

Castiel looks down at him, concern knitting his brow. “You don’t like the club?”

Does he like the club—Dean would laugh if he weren’t terrified of throwing up on Castiel. “Kinda wanna get out.” He backs away and shrugs, hips resting against the sink. “Tired of everyone touching me and just… everything.” _Just save me, please_.

Castiel considers it for a while and looks over the room, at the living room with only a leather couch and a television on the floor, to the kitchen with old utensils and even older appliances, to Dean, mottled red with hickies and still flushed down to his navel. It’s embarrassing; all of Dean’s money goes to rent and utilities; at least with his other job, he could afford to live in false-luxury until the money ran out. Here, Silent City only pays him enough to sleep indoors.

“You think I pity you,” Castiel assumes, crossing his arms.

The thought crosses Dean’s mind, yes, but he honestly pities himself more than Castiel ever could. After everything Dean has endured just to survive, it’s a miracle he’s still alive and healthy. “Can you help me?” Dean asks. It sounds so childish coming from him, but that’s all he wants, all he needs—someplace to call home, and preferably a way to live that doesn’t involve visiting the homeless shelter every other night for food.

Castiel could tell him no, and he has every right to. This was just a fling, only comfort after a rough night that Dean should never have accepted. But with all his heart, with this beautiful man in his kitchen, he wants nothing more than for Castiel to say yes, to help drag him out of this apartment and to keep himself afloat, to let him breathe fresh air again.

All he wants is to be safe.

Castiel’s response surprises him, even more than his kiss or the hand just over his waistband. “What do you know about the custom automotive industry?” he asks into Dean’s ear.

Dean shudders and grins. “Cas, you just met the perfect guy.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from what. 
> 
> This might become part of a series depending on whether or not I have the time! But, I do have a lot of ideas for it, so keep a lookout!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
